THE GOLD FISH: Vigilance (3.12)

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For weeks now, Barbie had been keeping vigil.

Every day after school, she sat on her front porch’s rusting wrought iron bench and waited for glimpses of Bridge coming home from school. The cold metal of the bench leeched the warmth from her body and left, in a less than satisfactory exchange, mesh-shaped divots and flakes of white paint on her jeans, but that was okay with Barbie. Her waiting was usually rewarded.

Most days, Barbie was there when Bridge rounded the corner, school books clasped tightly to her chest, flanked by her younger brothers, Kevin and Sean. The three Sullivan siblings would turn up the walkway and trudge into the house, all wearing the same basic aspect. Listless and vaguely disoriented.

In the first few days after Wesley’s funeral, Barbie had kept her vigil as silent and invisible as possible. She had slunk down onto the bench in the slanting late afternoon sun, her hungry eyes peering over her battered library copy of The Hobbit, searching for her friend. Looking for signs of life, or any kind of clue, that Bridge was okay.

What kind of clue she waited for, Barbie had no idea. Did she expect Bridge to suddenly start skipping up her front walk, fully recovered from betrayal and loss, instead of tramping lead-footed between her brothers?! Did she think that one day Bridge would suddenly shout “Hey Barbie,” and bound across the street, a huge smile plastered across her face?

Barbie knew these were ridiculous expectations, but she couldn’t help herself from hoping. And waiting. What the hell else was she supposed to do?

It was during one of these early front porch stake-outs when something unexpected happened. As usual, Barbie’s eyes were alternating between the words on the page and the corner of Morvan Road, when she head the sound of the screened door squeak open behind her. She turned to find her father there, standing mute in the doorway.

The truth was Barbie had barely spoken to him since that fateful morning when the news of Wesley’s passing had ruined his breakfast. The truth was, she could barely stand to be in the same room with him.

“Hey Boo-boo,” he said.

“Hey,” said Barbie indifferently, before turning back around to face the street.

“Whatcha doing out here?”

Barbie rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Just sitting.”

Not exactly the response Don was hoping for. But he blundered into the breach, nonetheless.

“Look hon, I just wanted to say—,” he began.

But Barbie cut him off.

“Don’t you have to be at work, Dad?

“In a few minutes…”

“Better get going then. Those cars aren’t going to sell themselves.”

Don winced.

As did Mr. Charles, who happened to be sitting on his porch, a few feet away.

Jesus Christ on a stick, thought Mr. Charles in horrified recognition, why on earth had Barbie said that?! Why had she used the exact same words he had muttered under his breath to Don months ago? Clearly Barbie must have overheard him. What was that saying his mother used to say? Little pitchers have big ears? Or something to that effect? Well here was proof of his mother’s wisdom.

Mr. Charles slouched down behind his newspaper and prayed for invisibility. Why, oh why, he thought, could he never keep his big trap shut? And for the love of God, why was he always present at exactly the wrong time? It never goddamned failed.

“I just wanted to say,” Don continued, either oblivious to Mr. Charles’ presence or simply not caring. “That I’m sorry. For everything. For what I said about Wesley. For leaving you at the library. For taking your money. All of it.”

Now it was Barbie who winced, thinking of all those extra dollars she’d pilfered from her father’s pocket.

And at that moment, Barbie realized something. Something kinda surprising. Saying sorry was hard. But maybe finding forgiveness was just as difficult?

“It’s okay,” she finally muttered. Then added, almost as an after thought, “half of it was yours anyway.”

Don snorted. “Okay, well… I probably deserved that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

But Don wasn’t the only one who deserved punishment, was he? After all, Barbie had committed more than her fair share of crimes herself in the past few months.

“But maybe so did I,” she managed to add.

Don nodded. “I’m gonna do better. I promise.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Love you, Boo-boo.”

Barbie finally turned back to face her father. “Love you too, Daddy-O.”

:::

By the second or third week of her vigil, Barbie had begun to stand up when Bridge approached, her hand half-raised and readied in anticipation of a wave, just in case Bridge should venture a look in her direction. But Bridge never did.

By the fourth or fifth week, Barbie was beside herself, desperate for any kind of signal from her friend. Any kind of relief from the monotony, the tension, the anxiety inherent in her reconnaissance. She had once mustered the courage to shout “Bridge!” But the name had died unanswered on the air, serving only to underscore Bridge’s indifference. So she never did it again.

This surveillance, by the way, was the only thing providing structure to Barbie’s days in the weeks following Wes’s death. She truly had no idea what to do with herself. Homework only took about 10 minutes, and all her favorite TV shows had lost their appeal. She had no embroidery to keep her fingers busy, no taxidermy scheming to occupy her mind, and no matter how many hours she spent on her back looking up at the living room ceiling, her house simply would not fill with water. Her ability to conjure that glorious vertiginous shift of floor and ceiling and initiate imaginary swims with her gold (pause) fish was gone. Her imagination and creativity had vanished. Leaving no evidence whatsoever of their passing.

The only solace Barbie could find was within the pages of The Hobbit. What a miraculous (and life-saving) activity visiting Middle Earth was. The minute she opened the book, the real world just sort of… fell… away.

And curiously, the book made her feel closer to Wesley. Kept him alive inside her. She wondered what parts he had liked. What characters had he related to. For example, what had he thought of Bard? Barbie wasn’t a betting woman (that particular apple trait did fall far), but if she had to make a bet, she would have bet that Wesley had found Bard worthy. Perhaps even more so than Thorin. And Barbie knew Wes liked Thorin. Didn’t he? She thought so. Or maybe not. Oh why, oh why, hadn’t she paid closer attention to every single thing he had ever said to her?!

Despite the constant self-flagellation that came along with these theoretical imaginings, they did help occupy, calm, and settle Barbie’s unsettled mind.

So once she finished the book, she immediately started reading it again. And contrary to any other reading experience in her short life, Barbie found the second reading of The Hobbit to be even more enjoyable, more immersive, than the first. It actually brought to mind The Wizard of Oz.

In the first reading, Bilbo, Gandalf, Thorin, Gollum and even Smaug had been in black and white, but on the second time through, every character was in color, and more delightfully complex. And thank God, because given her mental state and the fact that nothing else in her life was interesting or gave her even the slightest amount of joy -- The Hobbit was keeping her sane.

That, of course, and the silent, comforting presence of Mr. Charles on the porch next door.

Despite his horror at being present during Don’s apology, Mr. Charles continued to show up. Every single day.

Because while Barbie was keeping vigil for Bridge, Mr. Charles was keeping vigil for Barbie.

Not that she knew it. Or he would have admitted to it.

After all, he told himself, reading his paper and smoking his pipe with Trixie at his feet was something he did every afternoon. Free afternoons were, as Mr. Charles believed, the greatest advantage of being a post man.

Besides, he had read his paper and smoked his pipe on his front porch long before Wesley’s death, and if the afternoon sun was going to continue to shine upon it so beautifully, he was going to continue to enjoy it. How could he not?

But on that chilly Monday after Thanksgiving, weeks after Barbie had begun her silent vigil, Mr. Charles finally thought it was time to break the proverbial ice.

“You ever gonna finish that book, Red?”

Barbie twisted on the bench seat to address him. “I did finish it. I’m reading it again.”

Mr. Charles eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise. “Are you now? Can’t get enough of Bilbo, huh?

“You know The Hobbit, Mr. Charles?” asked Barbie innocently.

“Do I know The Hobbit?” Mr. Charles pursed his lips in mock outrage and addressed Trixie. “Do I know The Hobbit, she asks?” He turned his attention back to Barbie.

“Do you think an informed, intelligent, voracious reader like myself would have missed out on one of the greatest literary treasures of all time?” he asked.

Barbie shook her head. “Um… I guess not.”

“She guesses not.” Mr. Charles addressed Trixie again, before lifting his eyes back to Barbie. “Do you think…” he gestured to himself, “that a man of my… well, my impressive stature, would NOT be acquainted with the likes of such heroic and adventurous creatures as dwarves and hobbits? Who, without much help from so-called bigger men, helped save the world not once, but twice?!”

“I guess not,” repeated Barbie, a smile starting to form at the edges of her mouth.

“Although if you must know, Red, I’m not particularly fond of the way Mr. Tolkien depicted folks like me. Contrary to his, let’s just call it his bigoted misrepresentation, we are not all fond of dark places, nor are we greedy, treasure seeking bastards. In fact, if you ask me, and I freely admit no one ever has, I identify more with Bilbo and his kind. Simple folk who like to be left alone with a good pipe, a good book, and good food.”

Barbie giggled.

“And finally,” continued Mr. Charles, “if I didn’t know The Hobbit inside and out, as well as the rest of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which if you haven’t read, you must, why on earth do you think I named my dog TRICKSY?!”

“WHAT?!” Barbie screamed in delight.

“Must have the precious,” Mr. Charles crooned in a strange falsetto. “They stole it from us. Sneaky little hobbitses, wicked, tricksy, false.”

“Tricksy?! Not Trixie!” cried Barbie, her mind completely blown. “How did I not know that?!”

Mr. Charles shrugged and deadpanned. “You never asked.”

:::

As Bridge rounded the corner with her brothers that afternoon, she did what she always did. She scanned Barbie’s porch, albeit with her peripheral vision only, lest Barbie know that Bridge knew that Barbie was there.

Even though Bridge had no desire to speak to Barbie yet, had no desire to speak to any one in actual fact, she did find comfort in Barbie’s enduring presence. To be more precise, in Barbie’s silent, seemingly sorry, presence. For Bridge had known her friend a long time, and knew she was sorry. Really, really sorry. And she should be, shouldn’t she?

But wait, on this day, her friend didn’t seem sorry at all.

In fact, the first thing Bridge noticed when she’d rounded the corner was the sound of laughter. And if she wasn’t mistaken, it was both Barbie and Mr. Charles. Yucking it up. Having a good ole time. How dare they, thought Bridge, be so happy? What was so damned funny?! And what were they up to?

The second thing Bridge noticed was something inside herself. For the first time in weeks, she wanted to know what was funny. Wanted to know what her friends across the street were up to.

Bridge’s upper lip curled up, revealing her fangs. Not that she was aware of it. It just happened.

And with that, Bridge -- almost against her will -- started to rejoin the world of the living.

After all, Bridge was a Weeble too.

Next→ Fight! (3.13)